Long blond hair.
Seen from behind.
Messy from the wind.
Soft hospital lights reflected faintly against the pale strands while the boy stood completely motionless in the middle of the corridor.
Too still.
Too quiet.
A child trying desperately not to collapse.
The voice behind him sounded distant.
Professional.
Careful.
"Signor Cri…"
A pause.
"I'm sorry."
Paper shuffled softly.
"…but there was nothing more we could do for—"
The rest disappeared.
Or maybe *** simply stopped listening before the sentence ended.
For several seconds he stood there silently.
The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly.
Somewhere further down the hallway a machine beeped rhythmically.
Life continuing mechanically around death.
Then quietly—
the boy spoke.
"…I understand."
His voice sounded calm.
Too calm.
Not because he accepted it.
Because twelve-year-old *** had already started learning that reacting emotionally changed absolutely nothing.
Slowly—
he stood up from the chair beside the hospital wall.
The movement felt automatic.
Like his body was moving separately from his mind.
The doctor behind him hesitated slightly.
Probably expecting tears.
Questions.
Anger.
Instead—
*** simply walked away.
His long blond hair moved softly behind him as he crossed the hospital corridor.
The doctor called his name once quietly.
But he ignored it.
The hallway stretched endlessly ahead.
White walls.
Artificial lights.
The smell of disinfectant.
Hospitals always smelled strangely empty to him.
Like places where hope goes to die politely.
Then suddenly—
*** spoke.
Not loudly.
But coldly enough that the words cut through the silence immediately.
"…You doctors."
A nurse walking nearby slowed slightly.
*** kept walking.
"When rich people need saving…"
His voice remained calm.
"…or when someone's family donates enough money to the hospital…"
Another step.
"…suddenly nobody can stop you."
The bitterness inside his voice sounded wrong coming from a twelve-year-old.
Too sharp.
Too exhausted.
"But when somebody has cancer…"
His eyes lowered slightly.
"…when somebody needs help immediately…"
Silence.
"…suddenly no living soul steps forward."
The nurse behind him looked disturbed now.
But *** didn't stop.
"Then afterward…"
His jaw tightened faintly.
"…everyone stands around crying over the corpse pretending they cared."
The word corpse echoed quietly through the hallway.
For a moment—
nobody answered him.
Because there was nothing to answer.
And deep down—
the adults around him knew children only become this cold after learning something terrible too early.
Finally—
*** reached the hospital exit.
His hand pushed against the heavy door slowly.
Cold afternoon air immediately hit his face.
And standing outside—
was Gulli.
Smaller.
Younger.
Maybe ten or eleven years old.
Buzzcut.
Bright blue eyes.
Holding a football tightly beneath one arm.
The moment he saw ***—
his face lit up immediately.
"CRI!"
He jogged forward excitedly.
"Come on!"
He lifted the ball slightly with a grin.
"We're going to play football."
For a moment—
*** just stared at him silently.
Gulli's happiness looked painfully out of place against the hospital behind him.
Against the death still sitting inside ***'s chest.
Then quietly—
*** answered:
"No thanks."
Gulli blinked once.
"…What?"
*** stepped past him.
His voice flat now.
"…I don't care."
And he kept walking.
Gulli stared after him in confusion for half a second.
Then immediately ran after him anyway.
Still smiling slightly.
Still hopeful.
"Come onnn."
He lightly kicked the ball upward while walking beside him.
"You've been inside all day."
No answer.
"We'll only play for a little."
Silence.
Gulli kept trying anyway.
Like he physically could not understand giving up.
"You can even choose teams."
Nothing.
"We can go near the water if you want."
Still nothing.
Slowly—
the excitement in Gulli's voice weakened slightly.
But he continued following him regardless.
The football tucked beneath his arm now.
"…Did something happen?"
No response.
"…Cri?"
They walked through several streets like that.
Gulli talking.
*** silent.
One desperately reaching outward.
The other already disappearing inward.
Eventually—
they reached ***'s house.
Old gate.
Small front steps.
The familiar cracked wall beside the entrance.
*** climbed the steps quietly.
Gulli stopped just behind him.
Still holding the football.
Still trying.
"…Tomorrow then?"
Silence.
"…Right?"
*** opened the door.
Walked inside.
And without even looking back—
closed the door directly in front of Gulli's face.
THUD.
Silence.
Outside—
Gulli stood there motionless for several seconds.
Confused.
Still holding the ball tightly.
Meanwhile inside the house—
*** leaned quietly against the closed door.
His eyes lowered.
And for the first time all day—
a thought surfaced faintly through the numbness.
…Strange.
His tired gaze drifted toward the floor.
…Giacomo wasn't with him today.